Hope
by hColleen
Summary: That which stands between our world and utter chaos is a very thin barrier.


Were it not for two very specific things, all would have been lost. Everything would have gone up into a conflagration on an order to compete with the birth of the universe. Everything is still very close to that burning edge, but there is now a barrier, however thin it may be, between the end of everything and its continuation. A barrier that relies on just two simple things never changing. Two things that rely on a boy not changing.

A very thin barrier, indeed.

The beginning has been lost to time, to history that wasn't recorded save in the memories of those living it and their stories, which quickly became muddled into myth and legend. The stories, though, begin the same. It is after that, after the origin, that legend takes artistic license.

The beginning is simple. A young man with an unusual sensitivity, one that compelled him to seek out the unseen, the terrors that infected those homes where someone had died. It had been traditional to burn down the houses of the dead, to create a pyre of the house, of all that was in it, to eradicate the lingering monsters. This boy, his name lost to the ravages of history, would seek those places out, would find what was causing the ill feelings, the further deaths, the hauntings, and would eradicate it.

He also had an uncanny knowledge of reality, of the truth behind that which people claim to be true, of stories they tell themselves to continue on in their tiny worlds. Of the lies which become regret, bringing about those monsters that feed on the misery of death and life. Of fear itself.

He was well acquainted with the fear that would steal another person's mind. He knew, intimately, the core of his own fear. It had been shown to him, in overwhelming detail. What if his own existence were meaningless? What if all that he was, all that he struggled for, all that he did, was for nothing? He had faced that fear, stood still while it washed over him, not fought it while it consumed him, and had emerged, tempered and forged into something new. The fear had not gone away, but the knowledge that he could withstand it was more than enough to continue on.

It is after this that he is no longer a boy. He has become a man, perhaps more than a man, if the legends are to be believed. But, there is still more of the origin to cover.

To be where he was needed, he needed an occupation that would allow him to travel; one that, by its very nature, demanded that he travel. While most had some knowledge of herbs and their uses, few bothered with the specialized knowledge or acquisition of the herbs more particular to the treatment of illnesses and the maintenance of health. Since these specialists were few, it was natural for them to travel. It was also common for these peddlers to gain esoteric skills in their travels—divination, counseling, exorcism. A perfect occupation for his need to be where those lingering monsters, those mononoke, appeared.

It is also a lonely occupation, one for the young, for those who had not found a bride, or had not had one found for them. Many ceased traveling after a short amount of time to set up a shop that relied on the travelers to bring them news and more medications. Year after year, though, he traveled. People took to calling him only by his occupation, Medicine Seller, and he became a familiar sight, so much so that no one commented on his out-dated fashion, nor on the markings that covered his face and the pointed ears. He was just the Medicine Seller, a fixture on the backdrop of their society, something that, like the mountains and the sea, never changed.

Only, those things constantly changed. The seas tossed with storms and unseen explosions that drove tsunami before them. The mountains rumbled and spewed out molten rock, changing their very shape. It was only their relative calm, the calm on the longer scale, that made them seem unchangeable.

The same with Medicine Seller. He was calm, unflappable, soft-spoken. This the legends agree on. But, there are stories where he is perturbed, disturbed, callous, and cold. He is demanding, rigid, unsatisfied with incomplete answers. If some are to be believed, he as even been caught unawares.

Yet, all the legends agree that he has triumphed, time and again.

Even if the triumph was at the cost of those who'd hidden the truth. His demands were always the same. The tale was often used as cautionary: Conceal what he asked for and it was at your own risk, quite possibly at the cost of your own life.

The legends confer on him almost impossible senses of perception. He would seem to know thoughts, the hidden secrets of the heart. Perhaps he can taste lies, or perhaps those monsters he hunts tell him. Or perhaps he has been on his chosen path for so very long that he has heard all the fictions spun by those who have aught to hide.

He played no favorites, nor was he persuaded by money or pleasure. Rank did not impress him, nor did blustering skill. In times when carrying weapons longer than a hand knife were forbidden, he carried his own sword. The sword has its own legends spun about it. Some say it is alive, reacting to the truth only. Some say it cannot be unsheathed at all. Some say when it is unsheathed, Medicine Seller changes, that the familiar form darkens, becomes stronger, marked with gold, with red and black eyes.

Some say this is all a hallucination. There is no way that the self-same medicine seller who is the subject of all those legends could possibly be either true or the same one who started so very long ago. That the old people who swear he is the same and looked the same are only remembering what they want to remember. They ignore the fact that they have not seen him change, either.

When asked why they don't know his name, the older ones say it would be awkward at this point. He has been coming so long, just how would they ask his name? The younger say that the older just call him 'Medicine Seller' and he seems disinclined to change it, so why ask his name?

How long can his story be traced back? That is a most difficult question to answer. His clothing makes him to be one of those who came before. His practice makes him to be Buddhist, one of those who came after. Perhaps he adopted the faith as it suits the needs of his skills and calling. Shinto teaches fear and misunderstanding of the dead. Shinto teaches to burn the body with the house. Buddhism teaches that death is part of life's cycle, moving us onward. Maybe some foresight enlightened him to the path of the Bodhisattva before it was brought to the shores of the island country. Perhaps even before Buddha meditated under his tree. Again, no one asks him because they feel foolish. He is just the Medicine Seller, one who has been there and will continue to be there, as constant as the turning of the day into years.

He is the barrier between chaos and our world.


End file.
